Weaver, the
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me...
I may not choose the colors;
He knows what they should be.
For he can view the pattern
Upon the upper side,
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow,
Which seemeth strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
'Tis He who fills the shuttle.
He knows just what is best.
So I shall weave in earnest
and leave to Him the rest.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
